


Hold Me Up

by evxdevo



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F, glasses and guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evxdevo/pseuds/evxdevo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth x Cosima (glasses & guns). Headcanon that Beth has panic attacks in the middle of the night and Cosima comforts her; later, when Cosima is sick, Beth returns the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beth

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: panic attacks/anxiety, sickness, blood, emetophobia, mention of death, wow this is a fun fic
> 
> A/N: I realize that the panic attack part might not make any sense, especially if you've never experienced it or you experience them differently. but I did my best to articulate it, so there you go.

You know it's starting the second you wake up. Eyes still closed, cheek against the pillow, you feel the darkness beginning to close in around you. Even with Cosima in the bed beside you, you are entirely alone in the pressure of the blackness. You don't move, don't try to fight it. It's going to happen, so you let it.

Panic starts low and deep in your stomach; a twitch, a spasm; _oh god here it comes_. Half butterflies and half clawed ravens, it flutters and tears at your abdomen, tingles down your arms, curls your shoulders inward. It grasps at your chest and crushes your lungs in its long, strong fingers. So familiar, you know exactly what is happening. But that doesn't make any difference as your throat tightens, your breath quickens, you clench your teeth together.

_Stay still stay still stay still._ If you don't, you might vomit. With every shift, the panic spreads to a new body part that you've awakened. You try not to curl your toes or bend your fingers; better that they stay numb with sleep. You still have not opened your eyes; to see the shifting shadows of the room around would only make it worse. Too much darkness.

It's inside your head, a repetitive _oh god oh god oh god_.

You have to wait for it to stop. You have to let it run its course, and then it will go away. But as you lay there, stock-still and crumpling from the inside out, you think you might just implode this time.

You're choking, throat dry, your mouth full of spit _but don't swallow_. You make rules – _bite your lip hard enough, and you can control it_ ; _keep your eyes shut, and you won't feel it at its worst_ ; _hold your breath, and it cannot strangle you_.

You couldn't make a sound if you wanted to.

When you feel Cosima shift in bed beside you, your muscles tighten as if you're falling. “Beth?” she murmurs sleepily, and your breath catches. When you don't respond, she turns over and buries her face once again in her pillow. Suddenly, you can't imagine what you would do if Cosima fell back asleep. If she left you alone with this suffocating demon. You think you might die.

It takes every ounce of will to lift your hand; like it's covered in tiny weights and the misplacement of any of them might send the world crashing down. You feel under the covers until you touch her side, follow along it until you get to her hand. You grasp her tightly, as if she is tethering you to the earth, which, in a sense, she is. Your fingernails dig into her skin.

This is not unfamiliar to Cosima, either. She squeezes your hand, pledging her own strength to keep you fighting. She moves cautiously – doing her best to keep your world steady – and lifts one hand to your face. Her fingers graze your cheek and trace your jaw. Every touch is gentle, careful, and you are thankful, because you are breakable, and every moment of skin-meeting-skin is sending ripples of fear through your veins.

“Relax,” she whispers, “You're okay.”

And you try to. You let the tension out of your legs – you hadn't even realized they were clenched up – your arms, your toes and fingers. But as your grip loosens on Cosima's hand, you feel the wave course through you again, and you cling to her even more tightly. You wonder if your fingernails are sharp, if you're hurting her, but she doesn't say anything.

Her free hand cups your cheek and rests there. You let your jaw relax against it, your teeth unclench.

“Mmm,” Cosima says, “keep breathing.” You hadn't noticed you stopped. The air feels too cold in your mouth, your throat too tight to accommodate it. But you force your lips apart, force a shallow inhale and a strangled exhale, and let the air settle in your stomach.

“Good,” Cosima murmurs, “keep going,” and you do. Breathe in, breathe out, let your muscles loosen, the ones you didn't even know you had. Lean into Cosima and let her support you. Jerk and twitch and cling to her frantically, and let her carry you back to earth. The waves slow down, coming less and less often, less intensely. It must be an hour before you rest your head against her shoulder, burned out and exhausted in every muscle. You fall asleep like that, wound into her, thankful for her warmth.

In the morning, neither of you says anything. When your alarm clock goes off, you feel heavy, the effort of the night still taunting you with cramps in your muscles and clouds in your head. You get up without a word. When you've showered and dressed for the station, you enter the kitchen to see her making coffee, still pajama-clad and in fuzzy blue slippers. She hands you a mug and kisses you on the cheek.

“Have a good day,” she says. You smile and kiss her forehead. _Thank you_ , you don't need to say. And you walk out the door.


	2. Cosima

As many times as you've woken up choking, it's still terrifying. To feel your chest constricting, the blood bubbling in your lungs, your throat clenching; you would scream if you could do anything but jerk violently and stumble from the bed. Your knees weak beneath you, your mind clouded with panic, it's a wonder you make it to the bathroom.

Crimson is splattering the sink, the mirror, the tile floor, and that's you. That's the devil twisting inside you, breaking you, tearing you to bits and shoving them up your throat. Your eyesight blurs, black splotches appear, and your legs give out.

Beth catches you before you hit your head on the sink. You didn't even realize she was there. She lowers you to the ground, holds your hair back as you cough and spit and sputter. You clutch at the ground, at the toilet paper holder, at anything you can reach, just to have something to hold on to.

Your hand finds her leg, kneeling beside you. You told on tight, and she places her own hand over yours.

You wish you could yell for her to make it stop. You wish she could vanish the devil and fold you in her arms until the blood dried and your insides healed, scarless. But the best she can do is hold you up as you gag. You taste iron and bile and acid and you lose the ability to think.

When you can see again, you've collapsed against her side. She rocks back and forth slowly.

“Shhhh,” she murmurs, when you groan, “You're alright now.”

Blood smears the floor and stains your own clothing and hers. Your chest aches, your throat burns, you can't even think of moving. The room must smell vile, but you wouldn't know, because the air tastes like this all the time to you now. Nothing about this is alright. You believe her, anyway.

Beth strokes your hair and kisses your sweating forehead. She wipes tears from under your eyes, and when she does, you realize that you're crying.

You try to speak, try to apologize, but it comes out as a pained moan. She helps you lean against the wall and begins to wipe blood from the corner of your mouth. Your eyes roll closed and flicker open; you can't control them. She fills a glass of water.

“Rinse,” Beth says, and you part your lips to let her pour the water in. When you've finished swishing it around your bloodstained gums, breaking down what disgustingness it can, she looks from you to the sink and back again. She sighs.

“Here,” Beth says, holding the cup up to you again, “spit back into here. No use trying to stand up.” Too exhausted to feel humiliated, you do as she says.

She washes your hands and changes your clothes, helps you back into bed, and wraps the blankets around your shivering body.

“I love you,” she says.

In the morning, you wake up to aching bones and afternoon light streaming through the window. The bathroom is clean and Beth is in the kitchen making soup, her back to you. You clear your throat. She turns around and smiles, but the dark bags under her eyes are all too obvious.

You were going to say _good morning_ , but instead you say, “I'm sorry.” Her face falls.

“Nonono,” she says, rushing to you. She wraps her arms around your shoulders. “Don't say that, Cosima.”

You don't have anything else to say. Instead, you wind your arms around her waist and pull her towards you.

You think maybe tears are threatening behind your eyes.

“What am I going to do when you're gone?” Beth asks, and you think she, too, might be crying.

 

You breathe deep and hold each other closer.


End file.
